they can identify him.”
“You’re friendly with the police, Molly. Can you ask them to check for fingerprints without telling them why? I touched the note, by the way, not the coins. I didn’t think to be careful. I thought it was an early Chanukah gift.”
I stared at him. “This man may have raped your daughter, Rabbi. Don’t you think that’s more important than her reputation?”
“If the police can’t identify him, Molly, giving them Dassie’s name is pointless.”
I wanted to shake him. “Rabbi—”
“First, show them the note and the coins.” He handed me the mailer. “Dassie told Aliza she’s safe. Maybe he’s just playing with me.”
“And if he’s not?” I said.
Chapter 9
“I hope this won’t take long,” Mrs. Mellon said after inviting me into her home. “It’s almost nine, and Sara has a math exam tomorrow. I’m Faith, by the way.” She frowned. “You said your name is Molly Blume? I thought Rabbi Bailor said
Abrams.”
She was five ten or eleven, slender and practically hipless in a fitted midcalf black skirt. She had short auburn hair and hazel eyes that picked up the olive of her cashmere sweater and took my measure.
“Abrams is my married name. I use Blume for my ‘Crime Sheet’ column and articles. And I’m married only eight months. Old habits. . . .” I smiled.
She didn’t. “I don’t read police blotters. They make me nervous.”
“They make
me
nervous, too.”
She studied me to see if I was making fun, which I wasn’t. “Molly Blume.”
She tapped a finger against her lips. I was prepared for a comment about my name, which I share with James Joyce’s lusty heroine. I’m often teased about that, and I blame my high-school-teacher mother, who should have known better.
Instead, Faith said, “Are you related to Steven Blume?”
“My father.”
“He remodeled our kitchen. He did a fine job, but we’re having problems with the dishwasher. That’s not his fault, though.” Her tone was grudging.
Thank God, I thought.
“And your mother’s at Sharsheret, right? Celia Blume? Sara’s older sister, Ronit, went there. Your mother taught her AP English. Ronit got a two on the exam, so she wasn’t exempt from taking freshman English.”
Unlike with the dishwasher, I sensed that blame was being assigned.
“You were divorced, right?” Faith said.
“Yes.” The woman probably knew my bra size.
She nodded. “I know your ex–in-laws, the Hoffmans. They’re nice people. Look, Molly, can I be direct?”
I wondered how she would characterize the conversation we’d had till now. Interrogation, really. “Absolutely.”
“We love Dassie. We feel terrible for her parents. I can’t begin to imagine what they’re going through. But we don’t want people finding out about Sara’s involvement with Dassie’s running away.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t get me wrong. We don’t approve of the fact that Sara covered for Dassie. Or that she lied to us.” Faith Mellon’s lovely mouth hardened. “But she’s not to blame for what happened.” The sharpness in her tone and eyes dared me to say otherwise.
“The Bailors don’t blame your daughter.” A half truth. “They’re hoping I can help Sara remember something that may tell them where Hadassah is. Or who she’s with.”
Faith opened her mouth to say something, then clamped her lips together and turned on her heel. I followed her to a small den, where her daughter was sitting, rigid as stone, on a brown leather sofa. She jumped up when I entered, as though someone had poked her.
“This is Mrs. Abrams,” Faith told her daughter. “She’s here to talk to you about Dassie.”
The teenager had her mother’s willowy frame, though she wasn’t as tall, and her eyes and long, straight hair were brown. She was wearing a long-sleeved blue oxford shirt, a pleated gray skirt that stopped inches above her ankle, and navy tights—the Bais Rifka school uniform my younger sister Liora had
“You’re friendly with the police, Molly. Can you ask them to check for fingerprints without telling them why? I touched the note, by the way, not the coins. I didn’t think to be careful. I thought it was an early Chanukah gift.”
I stared at him. “This man may have raped your daughter, Rabbi. Don’t you think that’s more important than her reputation?”
“If the police can’t identify him, Molly, giving them Dassie’s name is pointless.”
I wanted to shake him. “Rabbi—”
“First, show them the note and the coins.” He handed me the mailer. “Dassie told Aliza she’s safe. Maybe he’s just playing with me.”
“And if he’s not?” I said.
Chapter 9
“I hope this won’t take long,” Mrs. Mellon said after inviting me into her home. “It’s almost nine, and Sara has a math exam tomorrow. I’m Faith, by the way.” She frowned. “You said your name is Molly Blume? I thought Rabbi Bailor said
Abrams.”
She was five ten or eleven, slender and practically hipless in a fitted midcalf black skirt. She had short auburn hair and hazel eyes that picked up the olive of her cashmere sweater and took my measure.
“Abrams is my married name. I use Blume for my ‘Crime Sheet’ column and articles. And I’m married only eight months. Old habits. . . .” I smiled.
She didn’t. “I don’t read police blotters. They make me nervous.”
“They make
me
nervous, too.”
She studied me to see if I was making fun, which I wasn’t. “Molly Blume.”
She tapped a finger against her lips. I was prepared for a comment about my name, which I share with James Joyce’s lusty heroine. I’m often teased about that, and I blame my high-school-teacher mother, who should have known better.
Instead, Faith said, “Are you related to Steven Blume?”
“My father.”
“He remodeled our kitchen. He did a fine job, but we’re having problems with the dishwasher. That’s not his fault, though.” Her tone was grudging.
Thank God, I thought.
“And your mother’s at Sharsheret, right? Celia Blume? Sara’s older sister, Ronit, went there. Your mother taught her AP English. Ronit got a two on the exam, so she wasn’t exempt from taking freshman English.”
Unlike with the dishwasher, I sensed that blame was being assigned.
“You were divorced, right?” Faith said.
“Yes.” The woman probably knew my bra size.
She nodded. “I know your ex–in-laws, the Hoffmans. They’re nice people. Look, Molly, can I be direct?”
I wondered how she would characterize the conversation we’d had till now. Interrogation, really. “Absolutely.”
“We love Dassie. We feel terrible for her parents. I can’t begin to imagine what they’re going through. But we don’t want people finding out about Sara’s involvement with Dassie’s running away.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t get me wrong. We don’t approve of the fact that Sara covered for Dassie. Or that she lied to us.” Faith Mellon’s lovely mouth hardened. “But she’s not to blame for what happened.” The sharpness in her tone and eyes dared me to say otherwise.
“The Bailors don’t blame your daughter.” A half truth. “They’re hoping I can help Sara remember something that may tell them where Hadassah is. Or who she’s with.”
Faith opened her mouth to say something, then clamped her lips together and turned on her heel. I followed her to a small den, where her daughter was sitting, rigid as stone, on a brown leather sofa. She jumped up when I entered, as though someone had poked her.
“This is Mrs. Abrams,” Faith told her daughter. “She’s here to talk to you about Dassie.”
The teenager had her mother’s willowy frame, though she wasn’t as tall, and her eyes and long, straight hair were brown. She was wearing a long-sleeved blue oxford shirt, a pleated gray skirt that stopped inches above her ankle, and navy tights—the Bais Rifka school uniform my younger sister Liora had
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